It's already a given fact in my family that I have a rather... peculiar imagination. "Active" for people outside of my family. "Over-active" if one were to look into it too closely.
There's nothing physiologically wrong with my brain, according to my neurologist. I get these strange migraines where my five senses get messed around with like smelling scents that aren't there or my tongue going numb or my writing from my left hand is a lot neater than the writing with my dominant right hand... just without the actual pain of a migraine. I get a long-lasting—but minor—headache, pain-wise, but that's it. But after having a CT scan of my brain and listening to the lovely buzzing sounds from the inside of an MRI machine, the doctor said there's nothing really wrong with the wrinkled mass of flesh hiding inside the calcium-rich dome that is my skull. I just need to watch my magnesium intake (which I've already had to do after getting diagnosed with PAC from my cardiologist).
There were a few therapists and psychologists that told me otherwise, diagnosing me as clinically depressed. Sure, that might have an effect on the "intricate" workings of my imagination. Then again, it might not.
Growing up, my mother loved to collect those porcelain china dolls. I hated them. I also hated the fact that, since she didn't have space in her room to keep them, she placed them on the shelf of my bedroom. For a while, these dolls didn't bother me. Yeah, they were kinda pretty. Yeah, I saw the appeal in keeping them.
Would I have stuck them in my eight-year-old daughter's room? Oh heck no!
At night, under the dim amber glow of a nightlight, their glass eyes would catch just enough light to glow a little. I would watch them stare at me as I slept. It made me so uncomfortable, I had to turn them to face the wall so I wouldn't see their faces.
Well... that ended up being worse since I had a tendency to wake up in the middle of the night. And being a groggy mess upon waking from interrupted sleep, my paranoid brain would then assume they turned around on their own, forgetting that I was the one who turned them around. My heart rate would speed up, adrenaline pumped into me, waking me further. When that happens, reason returns to me, then I go back to sleep.
My mother worked night shifts, so I couldn't just "run to Mommy" when I got scared in the middle of the night. And my dad was all the way on the other end of the dark, unlit hall. I was more afraid of the dark than those dolls, so I just learned to live with them.
I guess my experience with these dolls then leaked the tiny paranoia I ended up having with my stuffed animals. I used to sleep with them on my bed. I have no idea what happened, but I ended up thinking that they would get jealous that I would sleep with only one of them in my arms; so to prevent this I just shoved them into my closet so I wouldn't see them.
Okay, so you might be thinking, "Jodee, it's perfectly normal for a kid to think like that."
You know what's not normal? I do these "peculiar things" even in my adulthood.
I'm no longer afraid of the dark, but I do get these moments where anything flat and circular all of a sudden becomes "secret eyes" staring at me. Like the screws holding the plate covering my light switch. Or the circular logo on my fan. Or the clock. Or the buttons of my jacket. If it happened all the time, I would probably check myself back into a mental institution; but it doesn't so I just brush it off and go about my day. Or I play peek-a-boo with them if I'm certain I'm alone. It makes me feel better.
Or like when music is being played. Like at a party or some kind of school fundraiser or whatever, I purposefully force myself to walk off-beat of the music. I don't know why, I just do it. I feel uncomfortable when I'm walking to the rhythm of music for some reason. You'd think the opposite would be the case for me, considering that I've been introduced to music theory in elementary school and continue to play the piano even to this day. Performance-wise? Yeah, rhythm is very important to me and it irks me when people don't know how to clap on 2 and 4 instead of 1 and 3 with a song that's so obviously common-time. Walking is just... no. I walk to the beat of my own drum, not from whatever song's being played, thank you very much.
I have a few more of these strange things I do, but they're rather minor compared to the big ones like the circles and the music. Idiosyncrasies, if you will. Like my first step onto a set of stairs needs to be from my left foot or it just feels wrong. When eating ice cream, servings have to be in either one or three scoops; never two. I dunno why.
Stuff like that makes me, at times, feel like I'm crazy. But I've learned to just accept it as something tiny and carry on. I do have this tiny fear that if I do bring it up to a psychiatrist they will have me diagnosed with something else; but considering how little it's affecting my day-to-day functions, it's likely they won't.
My family may call it my brain being weird.
I like to call it "the spice of life."